The Blue Rose
by ograndebatata
Summary: When Carl Denham made an unexpected stop in Singapore due to a problem with the ship he traveled on, he had no idea he would find what he longed for since he became a filmmaker. Oneshot.


_Hello again to all of you my readers. It is I, ograndebatata. Some of you probably are reading my current King Kong fanfic, The Living Legend, but I thank you all for taking some time to read this here. This particular fanfic is a one-shot, a spin-off of The Living Legend, that develops one of the themes I wanted to explore further: how Carl Denham got the map to Skull Island._

_The wrting of this fanfic was heavily inspired by the recent reading of the novel King Kong: The Island of the Skull, the prequel to Peter Jackson's King Kong, authored by Matthew Costello. For cripes' sakes, don't mistake it with Lindemacil's fanfic Island of the Skull! Lindemacil's fanfic is a very good work (seeing as many of my readers are Englehorn fangirls, I guess I'll give you some sugar and tell you that Island of the Skull appears to be PARTLY EnglehornOC). Well, EnglehornOC or not, Island of The Skull is better under many aspects than King Kong: The Island of the Skull. At least Lindemacil doesn't put Portuguese speaking Spanish, or exchanges sea lions by leopard seals with frightening regularity, like Matthew Costello does. Nevertheless, the important thing is: those works are not the same thing! _

_I'm not sure how many of you have read King Kong: The Island of the Skull. I only read it about two months ago. But I hope you enjoyed this work. Just as a warning, my way for how Carl Denham got the map is a mix of the backstory to the original 1933 King Kong, the epilogue of King Kong: The Island of the Skull, and my own imagination. The only characters I own in this fanfic are Salvador Carazo and Clive Wallace - and the mentioned Kendra Englehorn. I suggest you to read The Living Legend first, as this fanfic has some spoilers to that story, but I guess this one-shot is strong enough to be independent._

_I apologize to you if you think my writing is poor, but I remember you, in case you didn't know: English is not my first language! This story may go under proofreading if my reviewers think it is necessary. And I also apologize for the lengthy author's note._

_Now that this is over, let's begin._

* * *

_Singapore, May 22__nd__, 1933_

The sun shone high in the sky, sending damp heat over Singapore's docks. The awful humid hotness in the air was more than enough to reduce activity to the minimum. Most people there were either on the ships or sitting under whatever shadow they could find.

On the galley of the _Isabel_, a Mexican freighter docked among several other vessels, Carl Denham sat at a table, reduced to the same lethargic state of the people in the docks. Sweat dripped down his face, not only due to fear, but to anxiety as well. He had to finish his film and return to New York as soon as possible to show footage to the money-men who had financed it.

Everything had been going so well! In India, Carl and his team had gotten fantastic footage of a leopard killing a deer. They had also participated on a tiger hunt riding on elephant's backs, and Clive Wallace, the actor Carl hired, had revealed surprisingly good aim by managing to shoot 3 tigers in a single day, comparable to King George V of England, who had massacred 39 tigers in 11 days back in 1911. Now it was just choosing the best footage of tiger-shooting – even Carl had to admit that three tiger killings passed on film became repetitive. Overall, a much better outcome than his first trip to India in 1928, when Carl had almost been squashed by overexcited citizens just because he kicked a cow for it to make way.

_Sacred cows…_ Denham recalled the explanation that had been given for such Indian ire. "Hmph!" he snorted out loud.

In Sumatra, luck had again showered on them close to a mud wallow, when Clive Wallace had managed to make an innocent Sumatran Rhinoceros calf to eat fresh leaves on his hand. Of course it hadn't taken long for the zealous rhino mother to charge in. The actor had accidentally wallowed in the mud a bit, but that part COULD be cut. Now, it was just a matter to go to Borneo and shoot the elusive "forest-men of Malaysia" the orangutans, and he'd have all the ingredients for a fine work of art. He only hoped those producers would have enough vision to recognize the brilliance preserved inside those reels when he showed it to them. But that would take longer than he first thought.

Thanks to some problem in the ship's engine, they had to change course. The exact problem was unknown so far, but the captain had ordered a stop in Singapore to see what was up. Carl had shouted to the captain that his schedule was already tight, they still had to do film orangutans in Borneo – because they hadn't managed to find any in Sumatra – and if they lost more time, he'd get on New York late. If that happened, he'd receive some heavy stares when he returned.

But the captain had argued that if the ship sank, they'd get to New York even later, or not get at all. And that was an argument not even Carl Denham could find his way around.

_What to do now?_

Carl exhaled deeply, trying to throw out the heat that welled inside him. These tropical climates could tire someone to the point where even breathing was an effort. Even his soul was weighing on him.

The movie producer glanced at the other four occupiers of the table. They seemed as lethargic as he felt, although most were slightly more active. Mike cleaned his glasses. Herb wiped sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. Preston used some production notes like a folding fan. Clive Wallace rested his head on his arms, even less active than Carl. Not for the first time, his eyes revealed that he hated the fact that the movie producer had gotten him into this.

At least the feeling was mutual. Carl couldn't stand actors. But the story needed them. The story was when man and wonder met. Without actors, there wasn't a story.

Suddenly, his heated brain registered footsteps coming towards the galley. Carl got up as quickly as he could, hoping the one coming would be bearer of good news. But he was the only one reacting.

Captain Salvador Carazo entered the galley with slow steps. Carl threw his most expectant look at the Mexican, his heart thumping on his chest. Carazo wiped sweat from his forehead with his left arm. Only then he seemed to notice Carl.

"You seem eager to know news, Denham." said Carazo.

"Cut the crap out and go straight to business." spat Carl.

"There is a problem, just like we suspected…"

"How long will it take to fix?" Carl jabbed his clenched fists at his roundish belly.

"I was getting there before you interrupted me, Denham."

Carl grunted. Apparently, all captains had a problem that made them hard to deal with. Still, Carazo was easier to deal with than others he had traveled with before.

"Anyway, like I was saying, it will not take long to fix. We should keep going to Borneo tomorrow morning."

Carl's heartbeat slowed down significantly. It could have been better, but it could also have been a whole lot worse.

Carazo walked to the refrigerator at the corner. For a freighter, it managed to be a quite modern one, having such a desirable device in this climate. The captain opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of Coca-Cola. As he pulled a bottle opener out of his pocket, he asked:

"You want one? There are many."

"Anything to fresh up." said Preston.

His inertia seemingly forgotten, he got up and ran to the refrigerator, followed by Mike. The last in line being Herb, who always limped a bit since the last three years ago, after a meeting with an over-territorial sea lion in Año Nuevo Island.

Only Carl stayed where he was, the eagerness of his crew for that carbonated drink totally odd to him.

"Coca-Cola is liquid crap!" shouted Carl.

Preston, Herb, Wallace, and Mike, all of them holding a bottle of Coca-Cola in their hands, looked up from the drinks to the movie producer, sheepish looks on their faces. Even Carazo again stopped in the gesture of drinking, but he only seemed amazed.

"I'm going out and find myself a real drink while the ship is being repaired." These moments were those when he regretted the most that all of his Red Label had finished during the shots in Sumatra. "Does anyone want to come?"

"_Yo no_." said Carazo. He gulped half of the drink in his bottle at once, and almost instantly after, belched loudly.

"Too hot outside." added Wallace. He drank his Coca-Cola as well.

Carl turned to his crew. "Any of you?"

Preston shook his head, and drank. Mike took the first gulp of that carbonated coffee. Herb seemed slightly embarrassed, but even he tried to give a shrug that passed by an attempt of apology before he took his drink.

Carl sighed. As much as he could order any of those three around when it came to film-making, his ordering around did not extend to come for a drink.

_Bugger that. If they wanna stay, there will be more for me._

Turning his back to the five men that sent Coca-Cola down their necks, Carl began his way out of the freighter.

* * *

The first thing that greeted Carl as he finished the walking down the gangplank was more of the damp heat felt inside the ship, with the difference it was much stronger outside. If inside the ship the movie producer was already having a hard time, then out here it seemed hellish, the equivalent to being close to a giant pot of boiling soup.

_Nothing that a bit of cold whiskey can't cure._

Carl looked around the dock, trying to see if there was some bar around. He took off his straw hat for a moment, waving it in front of his face in an attempt to refresh himself. He had to get a cold drink before he melted like ice cream.

As he put his hat back on, his eyes caught sight of a building. A building that had quite some similarities to a bar. It did not have exactly the best look in the world, but it seemed safe and clean enough. However, it was the name written on the blue neon sign over the door that caught Carl's attention.

_The Blue Rose_, it read. Carl Denham thought that was a strange name for a bar. He had read something about blue roses before: when he and his siblings had gone on vacations on his Aunt Virginia's house, in Idaho, they spent time watching her growing flowers, her favorite activity. And the flowers she treasured the most were roses. Aunt Virginia had once spoken about blue roses, and some of their meanings throughout the world. A blue rose could symbolize attaining the impossible. Or appreciation for enigmatic things. In China, they were the symbol of hope against unattainable love.

But they were a fake. There was no blue rose, other than those obtained by artificially coloring white roses. Real blue roses were a nature's impossibility.

Carl pushed the confusion provoked by the strange name into the back of his mind. As long as the bar had whiskey, it didn't bother him. He'd just have a small drink, and maybe take the chance to refill his reserves of strong beverages, for a trip back to New York without them would be almost unbearable.

Carl Denham pushed the door open, and looked around the bar. It was small, relatively well lit for the most part, with a bar counter in the further side, and several tall chairs close to it so customers could sit down. There was a fan in the ceiling, giving some fresh air to the bar. On one wall, there was a painting – one of a blue rose, the bar's namesake. Some Asian men sat at the tables, their drinks in front of them, paying no attention to whoever entered or exited. Not that Carl was afraid of calling attention. In fact, he wished to call much more attention, at least when it came to people watching his pictures.

As he again cleaned sweat from his forehead, Carl walked straight to the bar counter, hoping the underdeveloped Singaporeans at least already knew alcoholic beverages.

"Hey, you." called Carl to the bartender. "You speak English?"

"Yes, sir." said the bartender.

"What drinks do you have?"

"Oh, many. Me have water, juice, cof…"

Carl signaled him to stop. "No, I meant something stronger. Alcoholic."

The man furrowed his brow thoughtfully.

"I have rum." he finally said.

"Only rum?" asked Carl.

"Only."

Carl felt his heart dropping. Rum? Why couldn't those men have something as simple as whiskey? Was progress so late in coming here? Or were Asians so fond of whiskey that all of it had finished and the bar was waiting for a refill?

"Better than nothing." Carl finally groaned. "A bottle here. Is it cold?"

"Yes, sir." said the bartender, a big smile on his face. "Rum very cold. We have refrigerator."

Carl's eyes widened in disbelief. _This bar has refrigerator. This bar has neon sign. This bar has fan in the ceiling. WHY ON THE HELL IT DOESN'T HAVE WHISKEY?_

The bartender produced a bottle of rum and a glass, and handed it over to Carl. Carl gave him a coin for payment, and then finally served himself a full glass.

_Not whiskey, but always better than the drink for horses the imbeciles aboard the _Isabel _are drinking._ Carl cheered himself up as he swallowed a full glass.

As he served himself another dose, a reflection in the bottle caught his attention. Another man was approaching the bar counter. He was Western, it seemed.

Looking around, Carl saw he was right. The man coming closer was definitely Western. A ship's captain, or so it seemed from the white cap that he wore. And judging from his stubble, dirty clothes, thin face, and grumpy look, the man had already seen better days.

The man sat at the bar counter, and made a gesture at Carl's drink, and then at the bartender. Maybe he didn't speak English, or assumed the bartender didn't. But the bartender extended his right hand, held the fingers of his left hand together, and pressed them against the palm of his right hand.

The man snorted, and then turned his eyes towards Carl's bottle, the look on his face similar to the one of a hungry wolf.

Carl pulled the bottle and the glass close to him like a baby protecting his favorite toy. "Mine. Get yours."

"Calm down." rasped the man in thick-accented English. "I wasn't going to steal it."

_I beg to differ._

"And anyway, what's the matter with you all?" said the man. "Lately everyone has been a bunch of selfish bastards to me. What have I done to deserve so?"

The man sat down on one of the tall chairs. He looked at Carl, who still had not stopped hugging his glass and bottle.

"Didn't you hear me? I already said I'm not going to steal that rum, uh… who are you?"

Carl tipped his hat, and finally stopped hugging the bottle and glass. "Carl Raymond Denham, American, filmmaker."

"Nils Aslaug Helstrom, Norwegian, Captain of a barque." nodded the other man, the grumpy look more obvious on his face.

"Norwegian?"

"That's right."

Carl shrugged indifferently, and served himself another dose of rum. The man was still looking on the draft like a lion about to jump on its prey, so Carl again placed the bottle close to him, to protect it in case of attack. After a while, Helstrom's eyes lit up, as if he had an idea.

"Filmmaker, you said?" spoke the Norwegian. "Where's your camera, then?"

Carl made an annoyed grunt. Why couldn't the man just leave him alone? Was he trying to make him talk just to get a drink? Or was he trying to get his nose into business that wasn't his? Well, not as if Carl had a problem telling him.

"I'm not making my movie here. The ship where I'm travelling came here for a small repair, and I'm having a drink. And you, what are you doing here? You don't seem to have the best of lucks."

Carl saw that Helstrom's fists clenched at his sentence. Apparently, the fact that his tough luck was obvious did not please him.

"Trying to pick up business." finally answered the sailor. "Dealing cargo. Doesn't matter which kind, as long as I get money."

"You seem to be in quite a need of it." said Carl. He took another sip from his glass.

Carl saw Helstrom's fists clenching even tighter, but then the man took two deep breaths, and kept talking:

"You make movies, you said? Of what kind? Romance, comedy?"

Carl swallowed the rest of his glass, and hit the counter with it before he answered:

"Realistic." said Carl. "A Carl Denham picture means an insight into exotic worlds the public can only dream about. Encounters with dangerous animals, treks through dense jungles…"

"Boobies of naked native women…" interrupted Helstrom, his grumpiness now replaced by annoyance.

Now indignation was the predominant feeling in Carl's heart.

"Are you an idiot?" barked Carl. "Know that…"

"Hey, calm down." Helstrom cut off in cool voice. "I just assumed that because it's what most filmmakers show on jungle pictures."

Helstrom scratched his stubble, and added:

"Of course, there's always the exception that completes the general rule."

His anger slightly cooled down, Carl refilled the glass and took another gulp.

"And where have you filmed anyway?" kept Helstrom.

_I'm beginning to get sick of this guy!_ Carl had to repress himself quite hardly of just shooing the Norwegian away.

"I've already been on India and Sumatra, where I've captured unique pieces of nature in my camera. After the ship is repaired, I'll do the same in Borneo. When I get back to New York, my picture will be a success. And one day, I'm going to present some discovery to the world that will make every human on Earth to know my name."

Carl had said those words several times. They had never proved true. But he knew that someday, he'd get all the glory and recognition he deserved. The thought heated his heart even more than the rum he was drinking.

"You better be quick before everything that is left to find out is found." said Helstrom.

Carl felt anger flaming inside him again. If the man wanted rum, couldn't he simply ask?

The worst part was that Helstrom was right. New things to reveal were getting scant. Some day, there'd be none at all.

Helstrom's next sentence, however, caught Carl's interest.

"But if you want a discovery, I guess I have one that you might like."

Carl looked from the glass he was filling to the Norwegian. Was this some kind of trick he was playing on him? If it was, the man was doing a damn good job, for his pale eyes had an enigmatic gleam to them. What secret could that be?

Carl's biggest dream was to find something to film that would put him on top of filmmakers, like a new kind of animal, or an uncharted island. Something big. He had already tried all the kinds of things, like movies about killer whales, about a man-eating leopard, about a mad elephant. Nothing had put him on top. Could this dirty trickster have the secret that Carl had been trying to find out ever since he became a filmmaker? It would be good – too good to be true.

"Gibberish." said Carl. He kept his look on Helstrom's face, trying to find anything that betrayed a lie.

"Gibberish, you say? Well, let me tell you something: the man I met ten years ago was not gibberish."

Carl raised an eyebrow. "Man you met ten years ago? What do you mean?"

"Simple. Ten years ago, I picked up a castaway. The main said he had been on the most amazing place on Earth. He told me everything he knew about it. And believe me, Denham, any filmmaker would sell his mother to get a chance to get such amazing location footage."

Carl's face turned red with fury, as he jabbed a stubby finger toward Helstrom. "I would never sell my mother!"

"Hey, calm down." Helstrom lifted his hands in an appeasing gesture. "It was just figured speech. Anyway, any filmmaker that passed up a chance to hear this story would be the dumbest man alive. Are you that man?"

As his face and heavy breathing slowly returned to normal, Carl considered his outcomes. The most likely was that the man was telling a lie, but still, his enigmatic look and voice as he mentioned the place marked him as a good enough story teller. Listen to him was a better way to pass time than melting as he waited for the repairs of the _Isabel_. At least here there was a fan on the ceiling and a decent drink.

"Right, Helstrom." said Carl. "You win. What is your story?"

Helstrom cleared his throat and turned his eyes towards Carl's hand – which he only realized now to be still holding the bottle of rum. Apparently, Helstrom demanded payment for his story. Carl was not the luckiest of filmmakers, but he figured he had enough money to pay a bottle for the Norwegian. And he didn't figure only that, but also that Helstrom had captured his attention so much that he had emptied the rum bottle on the glass, and because the glass hadn't room for all of it, much cold liquid was wasted on the bar counter.

Carl cursed under his breath, and gestured with his hand to the bartender.

"Yes sir?" asked the Asian.

"Get two more bottles of cold rum." said Carl. He gulped the last remnants of rum in his glass.

The bartender returned with two more bottles. Carl paid the drinks, and then turned to Helstrom, extending him the second bottle.

"You win." said Carl. "Your rum. Now, the story."

"Better tell you on another place. Not the kind of thing you'd like to share with many people, until you make your movie, that is."

"Good point. But where?"

Helstrom motioned somewhere. Carl looked in that direction, and saw an isolated table at a dark corner. There were several empty tables around it. It seemed good enough for a private talk.

The two men held their bottles and glasses and strolled to the table. Once they sat down, Helstrom filled his first glass, and gulped all of its contents at once. For a moment, Carl feared that the story about the castaway and the amazing place was just a lie for the man to get his bottle of alcohol.

"Well then, Helstrom?"

"Then what?" asked Helstrom.

"The story, man!" spat Carl.

Helstrom took his bottle to the glass again, and drank another gulp. After that, he leaned toward Carl in a somewhat conspiratorial way, and spoke in low voice:

"Well, the beginning wasn't very special. I was taking a cargo of salt from India to Sumatra. Just about three or four days away from docking, my crew and I spotted and picked up the said castaway, an American hardhat diver named Sam Kelly."

Helstrom took another sip of rum. Then, surprisingly, his pale eyes seemed to darken, and a hint of fear came on them.

"He was in the worst condition I have ever seen. He had been adrift for four or five days, at least. How he survived so long, I don't know, but he was beet red from the sun, covered in blisters. Even worse were the injuries all over him."

Carl's eyes widened slightly. "What sort of injuries?"

Helstrom took another gulp of rum, emptying his glass. "I remember that he had a long gash on his right upper arm. And also two bite marks on his left arm. Those vaguely seemed to have been made by some kind of lizard, but one with head as big as a horse's, maybe bigger. He also had some wounds all over his body, like some kind of creature had scratched him. But the worst wounds he had were eight deep slashes on his torso, as if some gigantic bird of prey had grabbed him and taken him away like an eagle does to a hare, but had dropped him later. It seemed all those injuries had been received even before he ended in the water."

"Holy mackerel!" whispered Carl. "Surviving for days under such a dire condition? How did he manage?"

"I don't know." replied Helstrom. "But those injuries weren't the thing about him that disturbed me the most."

Carl noticed that Helstrom said the word 'disturbed' as if he had meant 'terrified'. The Norwegian's hands were shaking in fear. And for some reason, the feeling was becoming slightly contagious, and Carl's heartbeat and breathing accelerated.

However, Carl couldn't help but to ask:

"What was it then?"

Helstrom gave a refill on his glass, and drank half of it at once, before he finally said:

"He was _blind_, Denham. And it was not due to any physical injury, or to looking at the sun too long. He was blind because his mind could no longer deal with the things he had witnessed."

Carl's stomach flooded with acidic fear. As far as he knew, that kind of blindness was extremely rare, and only happened if someone was really shaken to the core. And Carl Denham doubted that simple physical injuries would have produced such an effect. The things that made the injuries, however, could have.

"What did you do to the poor fella?"

"Well, the first thing he asked once on the ship was water." said Helstrom. "My crew and I gave him all the food and water he asked, and tended to his injuries the best we could. The man had one day of rest, and on the day after, when he seemed more lucid, he told us what happened. He spoke about getting lost in a bank of fog and running aground on an uncharted island. An island with a mountain range whose central part – at least seen from the western side – looked like a human skull. The Island of the Skull, that's what he said."

Light was made on Carl Denham's brain. He had heard about the Island of the Skull, although mostly by its shorter name – Skull Island. Sailors of some vessels he had trekked on sometimes told stories about that place when they couldn't think of another talking topic. He had caught enough whispers of those tales to know that the Island of the Skull was a place that devoured ships and their crews with the appetite of a hungry water shrew. Carl had never taken such myths seriously, but now, the legend was beginning to gain some traces of truth.

If Helstrom was not speaking a mound of gibberish.

_Might as well hear everything to the end._ Carl Denham resigned. _It's not as if I'm spending more money if I hear the rest._

Carl inquired:

"Did Kelly say anything relevant about the island?"

"Well, he said it was big." said Helstrom. "He described the mountain range as about 20 000 feet tall, with snow on its top. But from the way he saw it, the mountain range had to be about 90-100 miles away. He said the mountain range seemed to cut the island in half."

"My, that's sure a large chunk of land." muttered Carl, more to himself than to Helstrom.

His heart again beat faster, but now with excitement. If the man introduced substantial evidence of Skull Island's existence, maybe Carl would be able to gather enough information to some day go to there and introduce it to the world. Discovering a new land – at least healthily sized – was just the kind of thing that granted fame and cash. Christopher Columbus, Francisco Pizarro, James Cook, the story was full of such examples. And considering how Skull Island seemed healthily sized, the name 'Carl Denham' would soon be added to the list.

Or maybe not. If an island that large had remained uncharted 'till 1933, there had to be something wrong with it.

If this damned story was true.

Carl drank some more rum. "Did the man speak of anything else than the island's size?"

"Well, Kelly described the island as having quite some ruins spread through it, as if some civilization had settled there, but was long extinct, maybe for thousands of years. And it wasn't ruins of huts or things of the like. They were buildings of stone. Some of those, he said, were about 50-60 feet high. Among the most impressive, he told, was a wall 100 feet high, and a gorge about 300 feet deep that seemed manmade. The gorge and the wall were together, and separated a rocky peninsula from the rest of the island, covered in dense tropical jungle."

Carl felt his heart becoming warmer than it ever had because of the rum. A chunk of land in itself would already be enough to grant some fame – after all, new lands always had new resources to explore. But a new civilization would make things even more interesting – and add new material to the film.

"But the man said the ruins were nothing – _nothing _– compared to the creatures that lived in the island. He described as taken from something worse the worst nightmare possible to man – creatures beyond human imagination. He said that all of his comrades were torn apart by those creatures. And most of them met such a fate at the hands of the most impressive of all creatures there, like some kind of devil turned alive. The king of the Island of the Skull, that's how he described it."

Helstrom shook in fear again. He emptied the glass of rum another time.

"Thirteen people made it ashore. Only Samuel Alexander Kelly looked in the eyes of The Beast and survived to tell the tale."

Carl Denham's pulse accelerated again, both with thrill and fear. "What kind of creature was that?"

"Kelly got too disturbed to describe it with much detail. But he said it was a house sized monster, neither beast nor man, covered in scars, the most horrid of looks on its eyes." said Helstrom.

The Norwegian again shivered in fear, as if describing the creature had terrified him. He drank another full glass of rum, and shivered again, but this time thanks to the cold and strong drink. When the shivers stopped, Helstrom added:

"He also told us its name."

"What was the name?"

Helstrom again refilled the glass, and then paused for effect. Finally, the answer came:

"Kong."

Carl rubbed his chin with a thoughtful look.

"Kong? That's Malay folklore, isn't it? A god, a spirit, a devil… I can't remember."

"According to Kelly, Kong was as real as you or me." said Helstrom.

Carl assumed Kelly was just cuckoo. It was impossible such creatures existed on Skull Island. Probably there was some kind of ferocious animal – but it shouldn't be more than a big cat, or a new kind of aggressive monkey, or some relative of the Komodo Dragon. In short, some kind of man-eating creature. Either way, now that Carl had started, he felt forced to hear everything to the end.

"What happened next?" asked Carl.

"Kelly did not speak more after saying the name of the beast. Telling his story had taken a lot out of him. So, I and one of my crew just guided him to his cabin, and laid him on his bed." Helstrom sighed deeply. "By the next morning, when we saw him again, Sam Kelly had joined his deceased companions."

Carl didn't speak for some seconds, his mind trying to process Helstrom's odd attempt at poetic speech.

"You mean he was dead?" asked Carl.

Helstrom nodded.

"How did that happen?"

Helstrom threw the movie producer a troubled look. "Is that really important?"

"No, I guess." said Carl. "Anyway, what did you do with poor Sam Kelly?"

"We knew of no family or friends we could report to." said Helstrom. "So we just" Helstrom paused for a moment "threw him overboard wrapped in a piece of canvas, with the best sendoff we could improvise."

_Why do I have the impression that you didn't improvise something too decent_? Carl Denham questioned himself.

Only then, he voiced another thing that troubled him:

"Well, that story was well told, in spite it was quite dramatic. But now, Helstrom, how do I know that it is true? After all, you described the man as delirious."

Helstrom gave him a toothy smile. "Yes, Denham, Kelly didn't seem in his best mental health. But on the last time I saw him alive, which was before I left his cabin for him to sleep, he gave me two things. This was one of them."

Helstrom produced something from a large side pocket of his weathered jacket. Carl couldn't see what it was initially, but when the Norwegian put it on the table, he saw it. And he couldn't believe his eyes.

It was a fragment of a broken claw.

But it was the exact nature of a broken claw that amazed Carl Denham. He had seen much of the world, he had made movies with all sorts of wild creatures before. And the fragment in his hand was nothing like he had seen before. He managed to compare it to an eagle's talon, remembering when he was making a picture in Africa once, and saw a stuffed martial eagle among the catches of the trophy hunter Geoffrey Brake. It had been one of the few times Carl looked closely at the talons of the ruler of the skies. But judging from the fragment of talon he currently held, the eagle this talon had belonged to was much larger than a martial eagle. If this was actually a piece of an eagle's talon.

Helstrom gave Carl time to appreciate the claw, before extending his right hand and taking it. For a moment, Carl didn't want to let it go, but then, he saw Helstrom's nasty smile. The Norwegian kept:

"And from what the man brought and told me, I managed to make this."

Helstrom put his left hand inside the same pocket where the talon was and took something out again. It was a piece of folded paper turned yellow by time, with a lot of scribbling on it.

"What's that?"

"That, Denham, is a chart, and the other thing Sam Kelly gave me the last time I saw him alive. The back of this chart had a lot of scribbling that I figure Kelly made before he became blind. But the front side had marked the course that his ship made 'till a place west of Sumatra – but not Skull Island. I marked here the position where we picked him up, and from both the place where we found him and the place last marked on his ship's course, I got a good idea of the island's location, that I put here."

Helstrom unfolded the chart, and showed it to Carl. On the front side, it was just a large chart from most of the Indian Ocean, with a course to a place west of Sumatra marked on. There was another dot, and close by it was scribbled 'Place where Kelly was picked up'. Then, there was a rather large circle on the map, that had written close by 'Skull Island lies somewhere here'.

Helstrom turned the chart around. Carl managed to see lots of sentences written in barely legible calligraphy, and on the center of it all, a quite detailed map of the island, which had been made by Helstrom. Carl managed to pick up some key spots indicated on the map, like 'Giant Wall', 'Skull Range', 'Ruined Village', and 'Kong's Mountain'.

Carl had to get this map on his possession, and go to this island, and make the biggest movie in cinema's history. Monsters would not drive him off, mainly monsters created by the illusions of a madman. There was the claw, indeed, but the man surely had exaggerated a lot, just like Marco Polo when he told his stories of his journeys to the Orient. The claw could not be such a small fragment of eagle's talon – it could not even be an eagle's talon. Carl wanted the claw as well, but the map was essential.

Helstrom folded the chart, and extended it to Carl. Carl tried to reach for it like hypnotized. His fingers almost touched the paper, but then, Helstrom took it away abruptly.

"It's $150, Denham."

The torpor that had flooded Carl Denham at the perspective of his biggest movie ever broke like a glass hit by a sledgehammer.

Carl clenched his fists. "Excuse me?" he almost shouted.

"You heard me. It's $150, Denham."

"You can't possibly ask so much money for a piece of paper!"

"I can, and I'm asking." said the Norwegian.

"But that's a lot of money, much more than a piece of paper is worth, Hesltrom!"

"You should consider it as an investment, Denham. After your film on Skull Island is made, you'll win millions of dollars. Giving me $150 won't be a thing compared to what you'll win if you keep this. Now, are you going to be a fool, and let the biggest chance of your life go away? And by the way, I don't take cheques."

Carl grunted. Helstrom was putting his finger on the wound too much for Carl's taste. Carl hoped to impress his money-men with the movie about Asia, but this map was a good thing to have when all the other sources had already failed. And Helstrom sure was right at saying that $150 was only a fraction of what Carl would win if he made his picture on this place. For some reason, the idea made him feel a cold shiver run up his spine – but he was certain his best movie ever would be made there.

"You win, Helstrom." spat Carl.

He opened his jacket and took out a large wad of bills. Helstrom laid the map on the table, took the bills from Carl's hand, and placed them inside his . Carl got the map, and touched it lightly with his fingers. It was his. When he got to this place, he would make his most fantastic movie.

_Maybe even find the owner of the claw…_ Carl thought.

Then his eyes darted from the map to the claw still in Helstrom's right hand. Carl put the map in his jacket's pocket, and then extended his hand.

"Do you want something, Denham?" asked Helstrom.

"The claw, Helstrom." growled Carl.

Helstrom put the claw on his pocket. "Not for sale."

"Not for sale?" echoed Carl. "I want that claw!"

"Not for sale!"

"How much do you want for it?"

"I SAID NOT FOR SALE!"

Carl jumped backwards in scare, and all the customers on the bar looked on their direction, clearly alarmed after Helstrom's shout. Trying to compose an innocent look, Carl just looked at them with a smile that he hoped to say everything was alright. Whether they believed, he didn't know, but they gradually returned to their previous occupations.

"Alright, Helstrom, not for sale." said Carl. "You don't need to get so annoyed at me."

Carl filled another glass of rum, and gulped all of its contents. Maybe it was time to get back to the _Isabel_. Now he had drank what he wanted, there was no whiskey here to refill his reserves, and he had already got a gateway for his best movie ever.

Carl got up. "I guess I'm going. Goodbye, Helstrom."

"See ya, Denham." the Norwegian waved goodbye. "And if you ever get to Skull Island, try not to feed its wildlife."

* * *

Carl Denham again walked through the sauna-like environment of Singapore, as he made his way back to the docked freighter. But strangely, this time the heat was not affecting him, as if it his excitement refreshed him.

After all, this stop had not been a total loss. They had lost time, and probably the filming wouldn't end in the promised schedule. Not to mention that with the money he spent, he hadn't nearly enough to fill his reserves of whiskey.

But he had something much more valuable than drinks. The map was now in his possession. For a moment, Carl wondered why the Norwegian wanted to keep the claw. Maybe to sell it somewhere else for another price. Or maybe because he wanted it as evidence that he wasn't mad, that Sam Kelly had not been an illusion.

Not important.

Sooner or later, Carl would go to the island, and once he got there, he wouldn't need the claw. He'd make his film and reveal the last blank space of the map to the outer world. Everyone would know his name. Every investitor would want to back up his next pictures. Every actor would want to enter his productions. He would get more than enough money for a calm retirement. He and all of his filming crew, Herb, Mike, and Preston. They would share the glory and wealth. They deserved it.

And Carl already knew how he had to get to the island. After this film was made, he would return to New York, and there, he would wait for the docking of the tramp steamer _SS Venture_. That was the ship Carl wanted to take him to Skull Island. Its captain, the damned German Eric Englehorn, was the man he had more problems dealing with, and the captain's wife, Kendra Englehorn, was as bad.

Carl allowed himself a dry chuckle. He didn't know why Englehorn had his wife around, but he unwillingly recognized that the couple together made a hell of a good work as 'captains'. One of the few things the couple was better at than captaincy was handling dangerous animals, like Carl had learned from nearly self-experience three years ago, on the last voyage he made with them.

As delirious as Kelly could have been, Carl had seen the claw, and the Englehorns were not only great at dealing with animals, but they also kept lots of firearms on their ship. Another reason why they were the best to travel with. He didn't know exactly when the _Venture_ would show up in New York, but seeing as Englehorn sold animals there rather often, it should be soon. And when the ship came, he'd be waiting. Carl knew that both husband and wife had gotten angry at him after their last voyage together, but he didn't need them to like him, just to take him to Skull Island. He had to convince them to accept this job. And one of the things Carl Denham was better at was persuading.

Carl stopped for a moment, and looked southwest. Somewhere, behind the horizon and a bank of fog, Skull Island waited for him. So far, his idea of getting a new kind of animal or an undiscovered land to show to the world had been dreaming for the impossible.

_Just like trying to get a blue rose._

Against all the odds, he had found it. He would get to this piece of land, this apparent mystery of nature. And thanks to it, he'd be on top.

As he kept his way to the Isabel, Carl Denham again rubbed the pocket where the folded piece of paper was.

_My blue rose._ He thought. _The map to the Island of the Skull!_

* * *

_There you go. My first real attempt at a one-shot. What did you think of it? Well, just for some final words, those of you who have seen Son of Kong, the sequel to the original 1933 King Kong, should recognize Nils Helstrom as the man who sold Carl Denham the map to Skull Island. Putting him here was part of my own imagination, as the man who sold Carl Denham the map in King Kong: The Island of the Skull, in spite also being Norwegian, is named Henning Menkel. Sam Kelly is also a character from Matthew Costello's prequel, so Sam Kelly is copyrighted to him._

_I initially had the idea about making this a fanfic where Carl heard the full story of what happened to Sam Kelly, but I gave up that idea. I also thought about making this a story that focused on Sam Kelly, and only had Carl Denham on the epilogue, but I also gave up that idea. If any of my readers happens to express an interest on my take of Sam Kelly's adventures on Skull Island - quite different from Matthew Costello's take - I may consider a fanfic about him. If any of you happens to be interested in the official Sam Kelly, then read Costello's novel. I'm not sure if any of you has read it before... but I tell you that in spite of some of its flaws, I overall liked it. But just out of curiosity, who among you has read it?_

_Again, I remember you that English is not my first language, although I welcome any kind of constructive criticism about how to improve my writing. I think, however, that this was at least understandable._

_Now, please, review!_


End file.
